"He is Athos," says Aramis simply, of no mind to dwell on what he cannot fix at the moment. "We will know very little of his heart until he is ready to tell us." His fingers skirt down Porthos' chest, hovering over a bruise. If there had been time, he would have done better than a cold pack, but even knowing that it can't be helped now, it still bothers him.

"I am going to get your creams."